The Togepi Orphanage was a modest building on the outskirts of a small city. Smeltwick City, to be exact. Its walls were painted in cheerful colors that never quite masked the scent of old wood and disinfectant.
For most children, it was a place of noise and play, where friendships bloomed easily. For Albert, it was something else entirely.
From the very beginning, he was different.
By the time he reached six months old, he could already sit upright, balance on his own, and crawl with purpose. At eight months, he managed to stand without support. By the time most infants were babbling nonsense, Albert had already pieced together fragments of the local language, his mind too sharp to stay still.
His caretakers whispered about him constantly. "Gifted," they said. "Strange," they muttered when they thought he couldn't understand.
They praised his intelligence—how he never cried unnecessarily, how he could feed himself with remarkable dexterity, how he never slowed the staff down like the others did.
And yet, they also noticed how he never laughed with the other children. His eyes always seemed distant, glowing faintly with a purple hue whenever his emotions stirred.
It wasn't long before he demonstrated why.
Objects began to move when Albert willed them to. At first, it was small things: a spoon sliding across a table, a toy lifting into the air, doors creaking open without touch. At night, when he couldn't sleep, he would idly spin blocks in midair, forming neat towers before letting them tumble back down.
By the age of one, Albert had achieved what most children wouldn't until three or four. He could walk, talk, and read with startling clarity. More impressively, his psychic powers responded to his will, strengthening each day.
The doctors who occasionally visited the orphanage called it "a unique case of extremely high psychic affinity."
In the world of Pokémon, where psychic abilities were usually associated with certain species, humans with such gifts were uncommon—and those with Albert's level of control were almost unheard of.
Yet his brilliance was both a gift and a curse.
The other children avoided him. Some were afraid of the way toys seemed to dance around him, or how he could predict what they were about to say before the words left their mouths. Others simply didn't understand him; his way of speaking was too mature, his eyes too sharp, his demeanor too calm.
Albert didn't mind. He had lived a full life once before—friends and playtime were luxuries he no longer needed. Instead, he immersed himself in study.
Every book the orphanage had, he devoured. Every snippet of conversation between the staff, he memorized. His flawless memory and boundless curiosity turned him into a quiet observer, cataloguing everything from the properties of healing berries to the proper care of baby Pokémon.
By the time he was three, he was less like a toddler and more like a child ready for school. His psychic powers had become extensions of his body: he could lift several objects at once, shield himself from falling debris, and even project his thoughts faintly into the minds of others when he wished.
He was careful, of course—too careful to reveal the full extent of his abilities. The last thing he wanted was to draw the wrong kind of attention when it wasn't time yet.
The head caretaker, a kind nun called Sister Maribel, often said to visiting inspectors, "That boy… he's extraordinary. Smarter than some adults I know. He'll, for sure, grow up and make a difference."
Albert only smiled politely when he heard her, what she didn't know was that her words would actually one day come true.
At three years old, while most children were still learning how to form sentences, Alfred Hugo Deford was already preparing himself for a wider stage.